


A Time of Need

by kinkynana (nanazlovese)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Desperation, Humiliation, Kinky, M/M, Omorashi, Wetting, desperate!Will, kinky!Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 23:26:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2087076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanazlovese/pseuds/kinkynana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe all that liquid wasn't such a good idea...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Time of Need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KadyLecter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KadyLecter/gifts).



> This is Omorashi. If you don't like that, don't read and blah blah. 
> 
> I'm gifting this to KadyLecter, after quietly reading and enjoying so much of their omorashi work. :)

Will Graham silently cursed himself. He had woken up thirsty that morning, and gulped down almost a pint of water, followed by a cup of coffee for the road. At the time it had seemed like a good idea; coffee would wake him up in preparation for the crime scene, but the long drive was already taking its toll, bumps in the road causing painful jolts to his bladder. He sighed, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes, sneaking a sideways glance at Hannibal in the driver’s seat to ascertain if he had noticed Will’s discomfort. He relaxed slightly as he saw Hannibal’s eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead, and shifted upwards in his chair. Sliding one hand into his pocket, he squeezed himself gently through the fabric, the small relief allowing him to close his eyes and rest his head against the window, and he forced himself into a light sleep to pass the time.

Will awoke as the car pulled into the gravel driveway of the house. The dappled green light from tall birches spoke of modern, moneyed suburbia, and the car’s tyres crunched over white stones, flanked by well-tended lawns. Hannibal drove up to the house and pulled in next to the FBI’s vans, turning off the engine and opening his door in one fluid motion. Will shuffled upright and released his door, straightening as he stood. A sudden and painful twinge in his abdomen reminded him of his need to pee, a need that had now grown urgent. Checking that Hannibal was facing away, he bent over slightly, grasping his cock through his trousers and letting out a shaky sigh. The movement afforded him some relief, but it was only for a moment, and as Hannibal turned to him, Will was forced to straighten, letting go of his pulsing cock.

Hannibal’s unreadable eyes moved down Will’s body, resting for a moment on his crotch and taking in the legs-together stance that was so uncharacteristic of him. Then he looked back towards the doorway, gesturing for Will to go first with a polite ‘After you’. Will moved up the steps, every nerve in his body straining as he was unable to adopt a helpful pose with Hannibal walking behind him. Will followed the echoing voice of Beverly Katz into what appeared to be the sitting room. Jack Crawford looked up as he entered, nodding recognition of his arrival, albeit late. Will looked around the room, taking in the both the modern and stylish décor of the owner and the multiple body parts that protruded from various surfaces. He looked back to the group of investigators, and seeing Beverly watching him, intrigued, shuffled his legs apart, sliding one hand into his coat pocket where he could form a tight fist to distract himself from his pressing need.

The room fell quiet. Jack looked up at Will once more and motioned for the team to leave, briefly making eye contact with Will as he passed. Will heard the door close behind him. He had removed his glasses and closed his eyes, as he frequently did before a reconstruction, but now everyone was gone he opened them again, frantically scanning the room for some way out of this situation. There was only one doorway, which he knew did not lead to a toilet, and to relieve himself in the room would be contamination of the crime scene. He whined slightly under his breath, bending and straightening his knees and gripping himself through the fabric of his trousers. There was only one thing he could do. He closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his breathing, one hand still holding and gently massaging his aching cock. He needed to focus, but the pulsing pain in his abdomen kept pulling him back to the present. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, crossed his legs, briefly bending double, and tried again. Nothing.

He started towards the opposite wall, hoping to find some situation from which the reconstruction would flow, but was stopped mid-walk by a particularly painful wave of desperation. Both hands darted to his groin, one kneading his throbbing cock whilst the other pulled the waistband of his trousers away from his hot skin, trying to allow his distended bladder as much room as he could. This afforded him a moment of relief, but it was all too short, as another surge hit him, making his breath hitch and one hand clutch at the back of an armchair. This time he was sure he could feel the pee forcing its way out of his bladder and down, resting hotly just under the head he squeezed so tightly. He felt tears well in his eyes as he stood, bent double, legs crossed, clutching his groin like a little child, and he was completely helpless to stop the squirt that escaped, dampening his boxers.

He was frantic now, his breath coming in short gasps, fighting with all his might to hold the hot liquid in. He gingerly slid one hand down inside the waistband of his trousers, and it quickly found the head of his cock (as well as the dampness that now surrounded it), squeezing painfully hard to stop the flow. He knew it was only a matter of minutes, though; he could feel the volume of pee pushing hard against his already exhausted muscles. As another spurt escaped, he made a sound not dissimilar to a sob through gritted teeth. Something in him told him to try to reach the toilet; an FBI employee _could not_ wet himself at a crime scene. He began to turn, still bent double, squirming in desperation, back towards the door, when the need was finally too much for him. With one hand inside and one outside of his trousers and underpants, Will could feel the wetness from the third uncontrollable spurt soaking through to the outside. The wetness around the head of his cock only made it even harder to hold on, and he was left shuddering and gulping back hot tears of embarrassment as pee flowed out of him. It soaked the inside-legs of his trousers and splashed onto the floor, at which point, though he had completely removed his hands, he tried, in vain, to stop (or at least slow) the seemingly endless flow. But his muscles seemed to have no power left, and before long he was standing in a puddle, eyes closed in obscene pleasure, curls damp with sweat and visibly shaking with relief.

Opening his eyes, he was startled by the shadowy figure in the corner by the door. His breath quickened and his face reddened even further as he realised that Hannibal had been there the whole time. The expression on his face was that of a mildly intrigued but indifferent observer. Will could think of nothing to say, and Hannibal showed no inclination to break the silence, so quiet remained between the two men. Will stared in silent humiliation at the floor.

When the FBI team returned to the room, no-one commented, but Will could feel the stares whenever he wasn’t looking; the whispers, the discreet pointing. His face felt hot with shame. In fact, in all the quiet fascination, not one of the team noticed the large, stiffened bump that had appeared in Hannibal’s smart trousers.

 


End file.
